


Violence, Meet My Fists

by The Gray Ghost (The_Gray_Ghost)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Assault, Blood and Gore, I have better, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Intrusive Thoughts, Please don't read if any of these tags trigger you, Violence, Violent Thoughts, fluffier, safer works, that you can read instead, very violent and gory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:22:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28161624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Gray_Ghost/pseuds/The%20Gray%20Ghost
Summary: Please don't read if any of the trigger warnings or notes will upset you. This is a very gory freeform fic.
Kudos: 1





	Violence, Meet My Fists

**Author's Note:**

> TW: violence, abuse, mention of s*xual a*sault  
> Please please PLEASE do not read if abuse, physical violence, or any sort of unhealthy relationship dynamic upsets you. This is NOT meant as a way to make anyone upset or scared, it's sheerly a vent about destroying one's enemy.  
> There is severe violence and blood, and graphic undertones relating to s*xual a*sault

With a sickening crack, I felt his nose break against my fist. He looked up at me through his swollen, bruised eyes as blood began to drip from his nose. I swiped my thumb across his lip, which I’d split open in two different spots. I watched as his lip trembled and his eyelids fluttered shut for just a moment before they flashed open as I spoke. 

"Good boy," I cooed, running my free and through his hair. My other arm hung limp at my side, swinging uselessly as I turned and stalked across the room. I grabbed a poker from the fire, lifting the red-hot iron to my eye level and holding it out like a sword. I let the tip clatter back into the blazing hearth and held my good hand up to the warmth of the blaze. 

“Are you cold, dearest?” I ask in a coy, vile voice. I feel a shiver run up my back at the sound of the man behind me whimper. I stormed back over to him, grabbing his loose, tangled hair and yanking it back so his bloodied face was aimed at me. 

“Did you say something? I’m afraid I didn’t hear you.” One of his arms strains against the rope holding him tight to the chair. I walk behind him and lean close to him, staring over his shoulder into the hearth in front of us. I turn my head towards him a fraction and catch the acrid smell of sweat and the sharp stinging scent of blood. I let a soft breath flutter over his ear as I stroked one hand up his outer arm. I lock eyes with the man in the corner, whose half-smirk confirms my suspicion. This is what he wanted all along. His mortal enemy, begging for mercy. I take the knife laying on the bed beside the chair in which my victim sits, and leave him with one long cut across his outer bicep. As I walk towards the door, I glance over my shoulder. 

“To remember me by!” I said as I winked. The door slammed behind me. 

-

I shiver as the cold water drips down my wrist and off my bent elbow, collecting into a small pool on my left side. I anchor my hand against the boudoir and look into the vanity mirror. The basin in front of me is filled with swirling iron-red water. I take the cloth beside the basin and wipe my hands and arms off one last time before I turn to my bed. As I sit down to tie my hair back, I see a flicker of movement in the mirror. I keep my back turned to the dark man from the corner of the room. Eye contact is unnecessary for this conversation. 

“You did well.” He states bluntly. 

“How many more?” I ask, staring sorrowfully out the window as I slowly brush my hair.

“Not many. You’ve nearly fulfilled your debt.”

I laugh harshly, the derision I feel clear in my tone. 

“And after that? Once that debt is paid, and the next leers ahead?”

The man says nothing, used to my outbursts. Every night we have the same conversation. Every night, I stare out the window and into the darkening night. This creaky old house has become a prison. 

“Soon.” The man claims. He turns away from me and the mirror, and his heavy footfalls leave my room and my side of the house.


End file.
